Laid Bare
Who knows what form –
who cares? Who dares
to comprehend
(or try pretend)
the fair, the storm,
the wild, the norm,
the fear, the fire,
the cold desire
that shivers for the glare that tears
and fells the jungle of your temper,
bare and open to the weather,
plain to see (and hide, in turn).
The days, they freeze.
The nights, they burn.
Absorbed
True, we cannot stare into the sun,
instead we turn about our gaze
and look for ways it plays and runs
through bare and lazy coils of fun;
and I’ll admit, I never saw
the sun like in those eyes of yours;
they swelled and held the earth’s attention,
soil and roots and bark within them,
marvel how as bright as brown,
as dark as light, drawn deep, I’ll drown,
and gladly sink below, beneath,
beside, reside, subside, release,
and through the skylight, watch it pour
the sun into those eyes of yours.
One sip at a time
My first poem of 2016. Written on a napkin in the First and Last Chance Saloon in Jack London Square, Oakland, CA.
Spread butter on your paws
and settle in, and drink your gin,
wherein you’ll find another sin
to claw at flaws upon your skin
you cannot shake; they snake and scar,
and follow you to wooden bars
embodied by the final hour;
the stiff and sudden empty power.
Taut
‘Align’ by Lydia Hunt
Something’s wrong.
I’m sore from all the plucking
and the tugging at my core,
I’m stretched and taut and split and caught,
and finally I’m seen;
tearing at the stitches,
my color itches for the switches
that relax the strings that tie me,
the cables laid inside me,
they twist and try to hide me
in a monochrome design.
I’m drawn (and live) in line.
My face toward the wall until
you will that I align,
so turn my cheek, and have me speak
the way that you define.
But I’m tired of all my wires,
your desires, and this game,
and you best believe I’ll draw upon
this pain to fuel my flame.
I dare you to approach me.
My poise is wearing thin.
This trap longs to relieve you of
the color in your skin.
A jealous witch
A fairytale.
There was once a beautiful witch who had fallen in love with a man as equally beautiful, and in turn he too had fallen for her. But she was a jealous witch, and could not help but notice all the attention her beloved drew when out on the town. The girls would smile, chatter and giggle amongst themselves; eyes darting, daring. She tried to ignore it. Ignoring even the red desires that danced in the pulse of his neck, smirking across his face. Until one day she could take no more.
“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, crafting the tendrils of a thick green spell in great swirling motions above her head,
“I hope you see, why you can only have eyes for me.”
And struck upon him an envious curse that prevented him from touching anybody other than her. But it wasn’t enough.
“What promise is this if I cannot help but keep it?” He cried.
“What worth is there in my love for you if by magic I cannot but adhere?”
And so he would go out every night, doing his utmost to try defy the spell.
The jealous witch looked on. Bound to her, but how he tried to throw himself at every bare inch of skin or self respect. He drank, he danced, he laughed, he leered, but he could never touch, nor take, nor taste. Drunk and defeated, he’d return to her in the small hours of the morning, wreaking of his efforts. But they were, at least, his smells alone.
But love transcends the physical, and it was not long before his heart sought out a kinder soul. And though they knew they could never touch, he fell hard and true for a bright young girl one night in town, spending every night thereafter in deep and wild conversation; of life, of love, of fear, and fantasy. The jealous witch became more jealous still.
In the black of night she concocted another spell; one that would rob that pretty young thing of her every uniqueness, and become of the witch a perfect clone in all but soul. So that when he returned home, the witch welcomed him with the eyes, the voice, and the very touch of his young beloved.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He said. She held her hand to his face.
“No, you don’t understand! You don’t know what she can do.”
He took her hand and made to move it from his flushing cheek. Then he paused. Feeling the electric touch of her fingertips. Her touch.
“But…how?” He said, his hands drawn in by the gravity of her waist.
“It’s impossible. Her curse…I can’t-”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said,
“I found a way. I found a way for you to love me.”
He took his hand from her waist, cupping her face in both hands.
“I have loved you forever,” he said, his stare intense,
“only we had not known it yet.”
She placed her hand on his, pressing it into the soft flesh of her cheeks. Then she drew him lower, and under the cotton of her clothes.
“Then know me now.” She said.
And he did. And for three moments, she was happy. Then he laid to rest.
But the witch could not remain so, toiling with the enveloping look in his eyes, and how she knew that gaze was not for her. Were she to transform right now, revealing herself from behind that pretty guise, his look would burn. And she too burned at the thought. Not being his star. Not being anything. Not being. Her eyes grew dark and green like the hot, muggy heart of the jungle, and she slipped from his side, snaking off into the terrible night. Returning later to bed, and drenched in red, she curled up close behind him.
“Darling,” he said, only half awake,
“for why are you so warm?”
“Rest now,” she said, feeling his clothes soak through,
“it’s my love, is all. My love for you.”
And they all lived happily ever after. Save for his bright young girl, who became forever asleep in sticky crimson, but moments after he had died inside a lie. And for the rest of his days he would never discover what became of the witch who tried to shackle his heart.
Connected
How reliant we become
on being so connected
My journey’s just begun,
but I find myself affected
by the absence of your chatter,
and the beating of my heart,
which has slowed to but a patter;
I’m but a piece when we’re apart.
Though, why should all this matter
when we’ve hardly got a clue?
Each word’s designed to flatter
as we toy with what is new.
And yet, I hope you wonder
how I’m not what you expected,
and perhaps, like me, grow fonder
every time that we’re connected.
Hold on. Hold tight.
Become of me the journey’s end,
where finally it settles in,
embeds in skin, and wriggles deep;
begun in sleep, where dreams ascend
and bubble through the porous guise,
unveiling sparks behind my eyes,
encouraging a far idea –
from smoky holes they flea, in fear,
into my arms. I work to calm,
and gain their trust.
They may. I must.
Pass me by
Pass me by, but do not slow
or come to rest within arm’s reach,
just let me feel without a touch,
and swear your heart won’t let me go.
Look for me, but do not stare
or smile with both your lips and eyes,
just say it all with silent sparks,
and know I dream of what you dare.
Think of this, but do not sigh,
or hide your blues in summer rain,
just find your knots and bows untied;
come look for me, and pass me by.
Decisions
You ask why now I question?
For years we’ve sidelined inquisition,
and never dared or cared to test
or tease the beast we left to rest.
You ask what now has altered?
But truth be told, we’ve always faltered,
and failed to think of what’s to come
or plan the path we’ve yet to run.
You ask how you can change?
But I don’t want you rearranged,
for every piece of you in place
is finer than the deftest lace.
You ask when? But I contest!
I need to lay this pain to rest.
The road ahead forks like a prong;
to drop a knee, or move along.
Eating roses
Bruges
The garden rises from the river,
swallows up my pasty feet,
and climbs my belly with a flower,
claws as sharp as scent is sweet.
Escaping to my bedroom,
I hide in my retreat,
and keep the window half ajar
to flavor my defeat.
From every frame and gutter,
the edges come to bleed.
Down in the river garden,
the leaves and ripples feed.
Prisms
We make excuses for our love,
for any chance to sit beside
or qualify another ride
into the city’s heart;
we are the blood, the pulse, the red
and present danger, underneath
and lingering in lingerie,
and glassy irises, stones in hand,
a parallel refraction splits
in prisms from our diamond gaze,
unbreakable, save for the brief
and soft together that closed our eyes.
Subtlety
I’ve never been good with subtlety,
far better I play outside your window,
or ride across the country just to hold your hand,
send you a dozen roses before we even met
in the flesh,
or save you from death,
for any less than that is lost
and you’ll never know my foolery,
daft attempts at Hollywood,
’cause someone sold me subtlety.
Digging
How is it in the mortal night
we find such black reflection,
and come to question our complexion
by the dying light?
Throughout the giddy glow of day
we play in blue refraction,
and bright distractions blind our actions
till the shying ray.
Exhausted by denial
we crawl with coiled tails,
and cease upon the meaty pile
where red things go to pale.
Upon the heap of death,
we reach for one last time,
in hope that we’re not just a step
for other souls to climb.
For surely there’s salvation?
And surely there’s a line?
Somewhere within these desperate words
I’m digging for divine.
By my side
If I dug this out in twenty years,
would I remember what it was like,
or understand the feeling that saw me able
and willing to write, even late into night,
after my darling had long since retired?
She rests on my chest,
her lips rise with each breath;
one inch closer to kissing her smile.
Confessed
My hour is dark and wrapped in toil;
awaking stark, but soon adorned
in all the tasks my midnight oil
could not a dent or scratch have worn.
This back grows strong with all I hold –
it’s been so long since lighter loads –
but there’s no song where woes are old.
Don’t dwell upon well-travelled roads.
By dusk I rest,
I’m fully dressed,
the day repressed within my chest,
impressed upon the unexpressed
and writhing words I’ve yet confessed.
—
Deliver me to temperance,
and drive this from my skin.
I’ve long lived full of reverence
for those who live in sin.